


Soul music

by Ischa



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Explicit Sexual Content, Fairy Tale Retellings, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ischa/pseuds/Ischa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my take on <i>The Piper of Hamelin</i>. In which the Piper is a contract killer.</p>
<p>
  <i>They still hadn't found H. and to be honest Logan was glad. Besides Dad really had other things to do than wasting resources on a contract killer/one time kidnapper who was mostly a whisper amongst whispers.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul music

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to mockingj91 for the last minute beta.

**~One~**  
“They say, you always make it look like a suicide,” his client said. 

“They are suicides,” H. answered.   
His client laughed like H. just said something funny. He couldn't blame them, they didn't know. He mentally shrugged it off. 

“I don't care for a statement,” his client said. “Nice and discrete is fine with me. Just get it done. Did you find the folder?”

H. did. It was where he wanted it left behind for him. He never interacted face to face with his clients if he could help it. “I won't be in touch. Once it's done you pay me and I disappear,” H. answered. 

“I like your attitude, kid,” his client replied.   
H. didn't think he had to say another word. He grabbed the folder and then hung up.   
The picture was clear. There was information included, but he would check that on his own as all. He wasn't one of the best because he was careless, or let someone else do his legwork. 

~+~  
H. had a reputation amongst those who knew how to look for these things. He was good at what he was doing too. It was a gift. His parents probably wouldn't be overjoyed at how he used it, but H. really hated rats.   
It was a win/win situation.   
H. picked his clients carefully. His victims too.   
Never had he had any complains and never had he felt guilty afterwards. He was worth the money he demanded for his services. 

~+~  
“He's dead,” H. said. 

“I know, but how do I know it was you? Maybe that coward did kill himself. I have really no guaranties. Do I?” the client asked. H. could hear a voice in the background, probably agreeing. He waited. “So, I was thinking. He's dead, no proof you did it. I won't pay. How does that sound to you, kid?” 

“Like you really should think about that again,” H. answered. His voice was neutral. He was just stating the facts. He lit a cigarette and waited the guy out. If he would come around, H. would let it slide. Let bygones be bygones. If not, well... H. had a reputation, and if this man thought he could just not pay him, he'll have to live with his choice. 

“Are you threatening me, punk?” 

“Stating the facts, but yeah. In fact I am.” 

“Go to hell,” the client said and hung up on H.   
H. took a deep drag. He made his homework, he always does. 

~+~  
Finding the boy wasn't hard. His daddy's money could buy him entry into any place in the city, even if he wasn't eighteen yet.   
H. didn't care for his age. There had to be consequences. He deserved respect and daddy really loved his son. That much had been clear from H.'s research.  
Sometimes when H. was in the mood for it, he would play a DJ gig and move the masses. This wasn't one of those nights. This, being here was personal, and needed to be done in secret. 

~+~  
His voice was enough, but H. liked to use an instrument. It was both less and more personal that way.   
An instrument filtered and focused, was less raw than only his voice, but it also made the music a distilled version of his soul. 

 

**~Two~**  
Logan didn't see him, he could only feel his hands on his hips, light and teasing, his breath on his neck and a vibration that was music, but didn't come from the speakers. It almost felt like it was building inside Logan's body. Came from deep inside it and it made him high and reckless. He wanted things – and neither cared nor knew what kind of things he was even asking for until the stranger said: ”Wanna leave?” It was only a whisper, but Logan heard it loud and clear. He nodded, not trusting his voice.   
The stranger grabbed his hand and pulled gently, Logan followed, and didn't care where they were going. 

~+~  
He was in a car, staring outside the window, there was music on the radio, but it was all wrong. Something deep inside Logan ached to hear that humming, that nondescript piece of music he heard in the club. He looked away from the window and at the guy who was driving. His vision was swimming. Logan couldn't see his face clearly; it was in and out of focus. 

“I'm drunk...” he said. 

“For sure,” the guy said. 

“I'm Logan.” 

“I know,” he answered. 

“Did I tell you already? I'm drunk.”   
The guy laughed softly, amused and it was like stupid romantic music in a romcom. Logan shook his head. Shit like that never happened in real life. “Where are we going?” 

“We're nearly there,” the guy said. Logan nodded. He was missing something. He knew. There was a deep nagging feeling that he was missing something. This wasn't the answer to his question, was it? What had been the question? He leaned against the glass of the window and listened to the music on the radio. 

~+~  
He must have fallen asleep. When he woke up, he was in an apartment. Lying on a bed. He was still fully clothed. Nights in clubs usually ended differently. With him puking his guts out or with being a lot more naked. 

“Here, drink that,” the guy said, offering a glass of water to Logan. 

“Thanks...” he took a sip and looked at the guy. He still wasn't in focus. Logan rubbed at his eyes and looked around. Everything else was in focus. The edges of the furniture so clear and sharp you could cut yourself on the glass of the dining table. “What time is it?” 

“Late, or early. It always depends on how you look at it, doesn't it?” the guy answered. 

“Yeah,” Logan said and he was about to grab his phone and call his dad, so he could send someone to pick him up and then there was that music again and he forgot. Just sat there and stared at the wall and then when he got tired again, he lied down and listened with his eyes closed. 

~+~  
There were periods of - not clarity exactly, but something. Things that stuck with him. Things he remembered.   
The voice for one. Soft and amused, and so very polite. Drinking a lot of water or tea. Eating something self cooked.   
Piano, viola, a guitar.   
Tunes and songs and notes. All blurring together.   
The presence of the guy. His smell, his body-heat.   
Later this would be all he remembered. No face. Not how long he had been with this guy. Nothing helpful to find him.   
Not even that he had been gone for days. At no point did he feel like he had been held somewhere against his will. He didn't know what to do with these feelings. 

~+~  
“But there must be something!” his father demanded. 

Logan shook his head. “Nothing. I don't know,” he answered. He got the story from Matt, his Dad's bodyguard, because Matt liked him and he liked to gossip. Apparently, Dad had screwed someone over, and that someone made an example by kidnapping Logan.   
He guessed he was fucking lucky that the guy gave him back as soon as he had his money and a bit extra for his trouble.   
The thing was Logan couldn't forget the music, the voice, the gentle pressure of fingers against his skin.   
He got hard just thinking about it and the worst was he knew they didn't do anything sexual. It was all in Logan's mind. He remembered squirming against the sheets in his bed, a guest-room maybe, alone at night, touching himself and wishing, hoping to be heard, to be caught, to be touched. It never happened.   
Logan was still aching for the touch. 

~+~  
Logan remembered the music; late at night he tried to hum it softly under his breath. He never got it quite right. When he was small he liked to play the flute. He had that thing still, so he got it out of its case and put it to his lips. The tone was wrong, but the heavy, hard wood against his fingertips made arousal spark inside his guts. He ran his tongue over mouth piece gently before he sucked on it, closing his eyes, imaging H.'s dick that he never saw, heavy on his tongue. He let the flute slip into his mouth as far he could and pulled it out slowly, gently, before pushing it inside again. The flute made a sound as he exhaled sharply against it and it shoot straight to Logan's dick. He was hard and torn between playing around with the flute and putting it aside and curling his fingers around his dick to get himself off fast and hard.   
He inhaled slowly, exhaled softly, the tone was nearly a moan and he kept sucking, alternating his tongue and his fingers, rubbing his cock against a pillow until he couldn't take it anymore and slid a hand down his stomach and into his boxers. He moaned at the touch, nearly losing the hold on the flute, it slid against his lips and cheek, wet with his own saliva. His fingers tightened on the instrument and his other hand on his dick as he tried to coordinate the strokes for a few moments before he let the flute slip out and abandoned it in favour of his aching cock.   
If the hard wood were H.'s dick, he wouldn't have to choose between sucking and getting himself off, he moaned at the thought and came over his own hand.

~+~  
“Dad wants that guy dead, right?” Logan asked. 

Matt nodded. Matt knew that Logan wasn't a kid anymore. Knew that Logan was smart and was very well aware of the sort of man his father was. Still, he was Logan's father and he loved him. Logan knew his father cared.   
“If you ask me, he should let it go. He screwed that guy over and he made an example. So he wouldn't be fucked with in the future. The thing is your old man is livid he took you.” 

“It's not like he did something to me.” 

“That you remember,” Matt pointed out. Logan looked away. “You don't remember anything right?”

“I don't remember his face or where we were, nothing helpful,” he told Matt. 

“But you remember something.” 

“Music,” Logan said, and a constant state of mild frustrating arousal he thought, but kept to himself.

“Well, that isn't helpful,” Matt answered and got up. 

“Try to convince him not to hunt that guy down. I -” Logan bit his lip.

“Yeah, I fear for him too, if he pursues this madness further.”   
Logan nodded. 

 

**~Three~**  
Logan dreamed of the man that was only known as H.   
Vivid dreams that felt all too real. He heard music in his head and tried to find it, it didn't work. It was like reaching into an abyss to grab an echo. 

~+~  
When he was playing clubs for fun, because there wasn't much money to be made by playing gigs at friends' clubs, you could be sure that everyone would have a good time.   
Emilia always said it was like magic. He just got the crowd right. And her club was in the shadier part of town. The nights H. played no one ever made a fuss. No fighting, no throwing of furniture or trying to feel up unwilling people. Peaceful fucking nights, H. smiled. It was easy really, if he felt happy, the clubbers would feel it too. Music was a powerful tool to manipulate the human mind. 

~+~  
Logan didn't want to come, not because he had been afraid to get kidnapped again, but because this wasn't really his scene. Too shady.   
His dad would probably kill him if he knew Logan was here. With his bare hands. They still hadn't found H. and to be honest Logan was glad. Besides Dad really had other things to do than wasting resources on a contract killer/one time kidnapper who was mostly a whisper amongst whispers.  
As soon as he stepped into the club he stopped and listened. His body was aching and his heart beating to the beat, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides. His breath was coming too fast.   
It wasn't the same tone, but it was the same music. 

~+~  
The boy ambushed him as he stepped away from the turntables to get something to drink. H. recognized him immediately.   
Logan's grip around his arm was too hard, his eyes bright and staring at H.'s face. He was trying to drag H. away from the bar. He sighed. Of course, he thought, that one person who would recognize the underlying tone of his music would be that boy.   
He went with Logan outside and lit a cigarette after he pushed Logan's hand away gently. 

“Are you stupid?” he asked as he exhaled smoke into the night air. 

“I-”

“You do know I am a contract killer, right? I have no qualms to kill,” he looked at Logan as he said it. 

Logan swallowed hard. His eyes were bright green, like leaves in spring. Green was H.'s favourite colour.   
“I dream about you. I,” he stopped and looked away only to grab H.'s t-shirt and hold on, twisting it between his thin fingers. 

“Go home and don't come back, Logan. I know where you live, I know who your friends are-”

“You didn't kill me,” he blurred out. 

H. sighed; he was beginning to think that might have been a mistake. On the other hand: how could have he known? Shit happened and you dealt.   
“Yet.” He tried to push Logan away again, but the boy held on stubbornly. 

~+~  
Logan wasn't going anywhere. Now that he found the object of his obsession, of his dreams and sexual fantasies there was no way he would just go home. He needed to know how H. tasted and felt and if his moans would be music too. 

“Take me home,” he whispered, pushing closer. “Take me home.” 

“It will only make it worse for you,” H. said and he sounded kind. 

Logan really didn't care. “Take me home.” 

~+~  
H. looked at the boy. This was such a bad idea. Such a fucking bad idea. On the other hand: he needed to deal with this boy somehow. He couldn't let Logan stalk him. His job required silence and anonymity.   
He took a last drag, crushed the butt of his cigarette under his heel and nodded. 

“My car's this way.”   
Logan's fingers tightened in his shirt. 

~+~  
H. had tattoos: birds and branches all over his torso and arms. One branch ending just over the hollow of his hip. Logan wanted to sink his teeth into it, wanted to lick ever branch and trace every bird. H., to Logan's utter frustration, was completely silent. No sound came over his lips except for heavy breathing. He wanted to scream. He bit down instead. H. pushed him away and on his back, held him down, pinned to the bed. 

“It won't work,” he said. “I just don't feel anything for you.”   
Logan stared up at him. Anger and something far more ugly raced in his veins, mingled with his desire and it wasn't only about sex now, it was about making H. scream, moan, whimper, whisper, _sing_. 

“Why can't you give me what I want? What I need?” he asked frustrated.   
H. let go of him, but Logan didn't get up.

~+~  
That was why he wasn't in the kidnapping business. It always got so fucking messy with talents like his. 

“They say you make it look like suicides,” Logan whispered. 

H. looked at him. He was so pretty and so broken right now. “They are. I don't make it look that way, they kill themselves,” he answered gently. 

“It's because they heard you sing. It's because you won't give them what they want.” 

“I can't.” and it was the truth. You could only sing a love song, he could only sing a love song, if he felt love, but he didn't feel anything for these people. He didn't feel anything for Logan and even if they had met any other way, it wouldn't have mattered, because fucking someone didn't require soul music. 

“What about all those people in the club? Are they going to kill themselves too?” 

“No,” H. said. “The music wasn't focused on anyone in particular.” 

“Lucky them.” 

“You should go home.” 

“Aren't you afraid that I send my father's people here?” 

“This is not where I live and you won't remember my face,” H. said. 

Logan sat up and kissed H.'s shoulder softly. “So, will you sing at my grave?”   
H. nodded.


End file.
